Save the Last Dance
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: A Lieutenant Duckling fic based on a prompt from tumblr. Princess Emma and Lieutenant Killian Dereves have been in love for years, but it isn't until he learns of his pending promotion to Captain in the royal navy that he feels the time has come to propose. Some names have changed, but no doubt you will recognize other citizens of Storybrooke and the Enchanted Forest
1. Chapter 1

As a general rule, Princess Emma didn't _hate_ balls, per se… She'd just rather spend time in an ogre prisoner of war camp than be forced to wear a corset tight enough to cut off her oxygen and blood supplies, heels high enough to make her as tall as her father, and a minimum of 20 pounds worth of dress. But it was the expectation that she be graceful, courteous, regally aloof yet polite, _and_ that she agree to dance with almost every eligible man in the room (regardless of rank or whether he was in possession of all his senses) that really rankled her whenever Queen Snow White decided that there was some obscure holiday to be celebrated. So, when her mother had clapped her hands and immediately launched into party planning and list making when her husband, King David, had announced that he intended to promote a particularly bright young naval officer to the rank of Captain, it had struck both of her parents as slightly suspicious that their outspoken oldest child did not kick up more of a fuss.

Granted, the lieutenant in question was a childhood companion of Emma's, the youngest son of a Duke, who had been raised with the expectation of needing to secure his own fortunes through fame or marriage; Lord Killian Dereves had chosen the former option like his older brother Liam (who had entered the army), dropping his honorary title on joining the kingdom's military and becoming a midshipman not long after his fourteenth birthday. He was now twenty-one, just three years older than the princess he once rode to hounds with as a youth, and by far the youngest man to attain each promotional rank as his career advanced. No matter the mission, every vessel he served on came home crowned with success and covered in glory; he was able to instill discipline and loyalty into his crew, while also earning the respect of his fellow officers and often the admiring praise of his commanders. Thus, it was not due to his exalted familial connections, but rather his own hard work and diligent efforts that prompted King David's decision.

Emma weathered the planning of this particular grand event quite well, comparatively speaking. She and the queen only had five arguments over the design of her dress and the height of her shoes—soundly trouncing the previous record low of twenty-three—and she actually had a firm opinion on the menu items for the feast (as a friend, she was the perfect source of information for the chatelaine and cook on what foods were the honoree's favourite). She even helped select a color palette and some of the decorations, eliciting a startled query about the state of her health from the Queen. Not only this, but she did not complain much during the various meetings with the tradesmen and women who were arranging supplies, nor fidget during a single dress fitting. Her mother was thrilled at this sudden change, convinced that the years of instruction in decorum and etiquette were finally bearing fruit; King David was a little less sanguine about his wife's view of the mystery that was their daughter these days, but he was willing to concede that perhaps she had finally fully come to terms with the duties laid upon her as a princess and heir to the throne.

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Finally, the day of the ball arrives! She's actually been up since before sunrise, breathing a sigh of relief when she opens the doors of her balcony and sees that the _Honor of the Realm_ has arrived safely sometime during the night. The gray pre-dawn and flickering torchlight from the dockside customs office give Emma just enough light to make out the distinctive green and yellow lines that mark it as a vessel of the King's Navy. She says a quick prayer of thanks to the gods and the sea for bringing him back safely, as always. This last year waiting for him to return has been torturously long, though thankfully alleviated by letters that arrived every month or so. If there's one thing in the world she's envious of it's that, as the heir, she cannot travel too far; even though she is a little more expendable than she was five years ago when the queen unexpectedly became pregnant again and gave birth to Emma's brother, Prince James. A miracle baby, it had been declared and celebrated throughout the kingdom after the boy's safe delivery; not that he will_ for certain _take his sister's place in the succession, for he's still far too young to even be considered, still has many years of training in politics and diplomacy yet to be drilled into him before he _could_ take on the responsibilities of a title.

Emma had known practically from the moment her mother said "ball" that she was going to have an atrociously long day of essentially doing nothing to prepare her for the many events of the evening—the formal reception, the informal reception, the feast, the entertainment, the fireworks, and then the dancing. Thankfully, all of the hair styling, skin treatments, and even most of the dressing process will be accomplished by several someone elses, so she'll be able to blissfully nap through most of it. But she also knew that she'd be far too jittery to be able to sit through it with grace, sanity, and dignity intact unless she did something active with her day, so she had specifically requested last night that their Master of Horse have her mare saddled for an early morning ride. She had also commanded her maids to have her riding clothes ready—matching leather vest, pants, and split skirt in a deep green with a linen blouse—and to wake her at dawn.

As she lightly trips her way down the stairs, she hears the rather unpleasant voice of one of the foreign ambassadors ringing through the front hall of the palace and silently groans. King Midas of El Dorado was forever trying to make an alliance with her parents, and the sticking point was _always_ his insistence that she marry one of his many redundant offspring. The mad king was rapacious for more than just treasure—he wanted power and to have all of his neighbors under the thumb of his children (who were of course all in turn under his thumb). Thankfully, David and Snow were secure in the love of their people and in possession of one of the finest Navies in the all the realms—which was true in any case, regardless of Emma's admittedly biased opinion on the subject. But even if they were not, the king and queen felt very strongly on the subject of marriage, particularly in their aversion to pre-arranged, mercenary, loveless matchmaking. Midas' current envoy at their court was a sly, limping little man who spoke with too many dramatic flourishes and who giggled like a child at the slightest piece of witty repartee.

Emma lifts her chin, looking down at the huddled group of courtiers from the vantage point of her graceful, long neck and the final landing of the grand staircase. As one, the Doradians sweep into elaborate bows, waiting for her to finish her descent. Baron Corrugo Aurum, aforementioned obsequious ambassador, rises first and rushes to hand her down the final steps. She's grateful for the protective leather of her gloves and barely manages to stop herself from wiping them on her skirts. She nods to the group of dignitaries and noblemen with a chilly politeness that would do her mother proud. "Baron Aurum. Gentlemen. I am surprised to see you all have risen so early this morning. I would have thought that, between last night's late audience and this evening's ball to prepare for, you would not have been so quick to leave your beds."

"We tend to be early risers in El Dorado, preferring to take a small pause during the hottest hours of the day for a rest and then resuming our work. As you can see, the Comtese Gemma Rubinia is not with us, as she is preparing herself for the festivities; she is, how do you say?... Most eager and fervent in her desire to impress you this evening." Apparently highly confused and indignant at the number of offspring Emma had rejected, according to her spies in the Doridian court, Midas had decided that sending a wider selection of his children with each new embassy might just be the one strategy he had neglected. And, while she had to admit that there was a certain something special about Gemma aside from her very obvious beauty, nothing could ever persuade her into the other young woman's bed given the identity and nature of her sire; furthermore, when compared to the brother also attached to this round of treaty negotiations, Vicomte Ignis Anguillam, Gemma was an infinitely preferable choice of bedfellow, spouse, and consort.

Despite being Midas' heir—or more probably because he was simply one of so many—Ignis had been to their kingdom several times to offer for Emma's hand in marriage. Frankly, she's considered actually giving away one of her hands to the insufferable bore, so long as the treaty were concluded and she'd never have to go through with the whole "in marriage" clause of the contract. The vicomte could be charming when he chose to be and was as physically handsome as his sister was beautiful, but he was also a preening peacock who believed that a throne was no place for a woman. In all of the years that she had been acquainted with him, he had never acknowledged her authority to discuss matters of state or her voluminous input during negotiations. In his way of thinking, he was an heir in his own right, and she should be falling all over herself to please him, placate him, and pander to his vanity. She suddenly has a delightful bit of inspiration on how to shake these particularly annoying fleas. "I'm sorry to have missed the opportunity to see her! I also will be preparing for the ball most of the day, however I do require some fresh air and exercise which is why you see me dressed for such. Would you gentlemen care to join me for a ride? There are some lovely hunting runs through the park, and although I don't foresee bringing down any boar or stag, what could be more beneficial than the exercise provided by a stirring chase!"

Both the baron and Ignis visibly paled at her mention of hunting. The vicomte had been in a particularly embarrassing riding accident the last time he had been to the Summer Palace. King David had forbidden anyone to ever speak of it again; naturally, Emma had regaled Killian with the story when he'd visited just before his voyage, insisting that it wasn't so much the Vicomte Anguillam's drunkenness as his inflated ego that horse could no longer carry nor tolerate. The poor stallion had been banished to one of her father's smaller estates prior to this latest détente. She also notices that both of the guards stationed at the palace doors begin coughing, discreetly if a touch suspiciously. "Our many thanks, your Grace, for your kind invitation. Alas, we are expected by your father the King within the hour, and thus cannot accompany you on what will most certainly be an exceptionally fair outing."

"Oh? That's odd, for I was fairly certain that several ships had returned home from further realms, and that their Majesties would be receiving the officers and their reports for the better part of the day. How silly of me to think that I would know the business of my parents and the kingdom! Good day, gentlemen." She held out her hands, one to each of them; she may shudder internally at allowing them to kiss any part of her, but putting them in their place was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. Emma breezes past them and their entourage quickly, nodding and smiling to the guards who—coughing fits subsided—wear open grins of admiration for their princess. She races to the stables and is out riding to the park within minutes, because as desperate as she is to see Killian again, she knows that forcing the both of them to pretend indifference to each other during the long, tedious affairs that official audiences can become would be nothing short of either disastrous to their plans or maddeningly torturous.

She rides hard, standing in the stirrups so that her mare can really pick up speed. Emma has only been on a ship that's docked or on smaller, pleasure yachts, yet she imagines that this exhilarating feeling of freedom—wind lashing against her body—must be what drew Killian to the sea. She knows she doesn't have much time before the pre-ball beautification rituals will need to begin, so she keeps her horse on the closest runs of the park, and despite bringing her hunting knife and her short bow, she has no intention of making a kill today unless it's of the political variety. She can feel her braids coming undone, yet she can't quite bring herself to care—only in the safety and privacy of a fast gallop through the palace grounds, where she may ride without escort or fussing from her parents, or in the few, precious stolen moments with Killian over the years can she truly feel like herself, like a person and not a princess. Yet even there, the burdens and weight of the crown follow her, shadow her every step; even with hair rippling in the breeze of her passing, body as one with her horse as they race across the park, she can feel duty breathing harshly down her neck. Coming back up to the stables, she breathes another prayer that today will be _the Day_—not just the one that sees her reunited with him, but the hour in which he finally decides to act on that encouragement to hope that she gave to him all those years past…

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_Three Years Ago_

_The cold bite of winter was still in the air, making any attempt at a sea voyage perilous at best. Yet news of the sacking of Orlea by the Sabrians had shocked the entire kingdom, leading to a frantic call to arms and scrambling to collect the scattered members of the military. Liam and he had been wintering with their family at the nearby Dereves' estate of Enjoue Abbaye, and they had responded swiftly to the royal summons. In all his eighteen years, Killian had never seen the palace or the royal family in such a state of disarray. His father had told him stories of the fabled war councils of Queen Snow and King David, where the defeat of the wicked Sabrian queen had been meticulously planned not long before Princess Emma had been born. He'd only seen his best friend in passing—always, when he thought he'd spotted her, she had vanished into thin air by the time he could get to where he thought she had been; his heart constricted in his chest every time he realized that his searches were in vain._

_He was never able to pin down exactly when he fell in love with her, but it was sometime between her lisped five year-old declaration that she would marry him someday and today, yet also before her childish, sprite-like prettiness gave way to the graceful, elfin beauty of the past year and more. He just remembered that one day, not long before her 11__th__ birthday, he found her crying alone in the garden because one of her deportment and dancing masters declared her to be gawky, awkward, and as graceless as a newborn colt. He'd been her best friend since they met, yet not once had he ever seen Emma give way to tears despite all of the scrapes and scraps they'd gotten themselves into. Her pain was his, and he knew with resounding clarity that no cost was too high, no price to steep, but he would pay it to ensure her happiness always. That was the day he first spoke to his parents and the dwarves about serving the kingdom and the monarchy, and for the past four years, he has worked to preserve and protect both._

_Though every single day aboard a ship had dangers aplenty, this was the first time in over a decade that the threat of war had overshadowed the kingdom. A part of him was very much aware that the risks and perils were now greater than they had ever been, but not once did he regret his decision to choose a life of honor and service over one of bored, aristocratic luxury. The only problem he could see was Emma. She was still growing up, barely past the age of childhood and only just stretching her fingertips toward womanhood. Above all things, he did not wish to tarnish or spoil their friendship, but neither was he comfortable with facing an uncertain future without at least telling her how he felt. Was it fair of him to declare his love, knowing that if he went off to war, he might never come home to her?_

_He was desperate for some sign from her, but throughout the dinner meals that they shared together with his parents, the counselors, and other important citizen, Emma maintained an unusual silence where he was concerned. She would speak to others—not at length, but certainly much longer than the monosyllable answers she provided him. He spent hours tossing and turning before he finally gave up on sleep, deciding that a walk through the frost-covered gardens might clear his head enough for him to divine the solution. He should have guessed, he should have known that he wouldn't be the only person who would seek midnight solitude and contemplation among the familiar paths. She was bundled tightly in her cloak, hood up to keep her head war, but Killian could see that she still wore the heavy velvet dress she had worn to dinner. She had taken his breath away just a few short hours ago, the bright, wine colored fabric highlighting the creamy ivory of her skin, the golden patina of her curls, and the moss green of her eyes. He had seen her, had thought of her as a woman before she had descended the grand staircase in that gown, but he knew that it was the first time other men had looked and discovered that she had grown into a beauty to rival her mother. Part of him knew that she would not thank him for disturbing her solitude, but this rare chance to be truly alone with her seemed like the answer to his prayers for a sign._

"_My Lady." His voice was low and quiet, but it shattered the silence as well as the stalemate between them; Emma turned her face toward him, unable to hide the crystalline sparkling of her tears from his piercing gaze. A choked sound left his throat before he rushed to her side and wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck, shaking her head and continuing to cry. Despite being very aware of every curve, every inch of skin that she had pressed up against him, he was more concerned about the cause of her outburst. What could possibly have happened to make her so terribly sad and vulnerable? Killian took a deep breath of frigid air in attempt to clear away the heat that had begun to course through his veins, but her body curled into his with one arm wrapped about his neck and a warm palm stroking his chest was hardly helping him to remain unaffected and rational. "Darling Emma, what's wrong? What can I do?"_

_The hand on his chest tightened into a fist gripping his waistcoat, but she refused to look up at him. He could see that her eyes were wide, with legitimate terror and pain swirling in their depths, and when she spoke, he barely recognized it as hers. "Don't go, Killian! Ever since the reports came in, I knew… I knew that you being a soldier was dangerous before, but now that a war could be starting? I can't lose you—I refuse to lose you, Killian. So, you can obey me. Hand in your commission this instant and don't even think about going back to your ship!"_

"_Emma—I can't do that; you know I can't. How would I ever be able to face my father ever again, turning tail at the first hint of danger? I wouldn't be able to live with myself, with my honor-"_

"_Honor! You would throw that back at me as your excuse! I don't care about your damn honor, and neither should you! What use is your honor if you're dead?!" She had struggled to escape the gentle cage of his arms and only managed it because her curse had shocked and surprised him. But her rage became sorrow in an instant, the second she realized that she couldn't hide her greatest fear and greatest desire from him, sobbing on the word dead as if speaking it would somehow rip him away from her. "No one really expects you to go put yourself in harm's way. You could serve at home, take a position as an aid de camp; you'd never have to risk…"_

_A sort of awe and hope had begun to take root in his heart and in his eyes as she kept speaking, kept pouring out words that seemed to nourish his secret hope. He rose from the cold, hard bench and slowly walked around her shivering form. She shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head and lowering her chin as he drew closer. Her hands were encased in white suede gloves, but the belled sleeves of her dress did little to cover her lower arms. The cloak was not her warmest either, indicating that she had left her rooms without much forethought; it provided Killian with the perfect pretense for drifting closer and gathering her back to him. She came willingly, all of her chilled curves seeking the heat of his body. Gently, he brushed her tears away with his thumbs and the backs of his fingers, caresses that she leaned into; her shy encouragements led him to the even greater liberty of kissing her hair and her forehead, which in turn pulled breathy sighs past her lips._

"_I've been looking for you all day, dearest Emma, desperate to talk to you, yet unsure of what to say. Our language masters always said that of those two of us, I would make the better diplomat for my way with words, but I find them failing me when it matters most. I cannot do what you have just asked of me—not because I refuse your right to command me, but because I love you. I chose a life of service __**to you**__, __**for you**__ and your family. I may have no hope of securing your love or your hand in marriage, but I will do all in my power to ensure that you are safe and happy, Emma d'Cygne; and if that means dying to preserve your life and your crown, then I will count my life as well spent."_

_She had beaten at his chest and arms when he refused her request, but she had stilled at his declaration. Slowly, she had lifted her eyes to his, searching them for falsehoods and evasions. Her breathing was labored, puffing out in clouds on the freezing air, and then she did something that shocked him even more than when she had sworn at him. Her grip on his waistcoat tightened, and she pulled their bodies flush together, wrapping a hand into his hair and pressing her lips to his. Killian had been kissed before, but it had never knocked all thoughts from his mind or made him feel dizzy. It wasn't skill or finesse that had him reeling, it was the power, the depth, the intensity that nearly brought him to his knees. They both pulled back to breathe, but then there she was again, demanding that he respond and prove the veracity of his words. And as ever, he rose to her challenge; he poured his soul into kissing her, persuading her of his sincerity, convincing her of his devotion. He had to force himself to stop, reluctantly releasing her lower lip from between his teeth. Her laugh when he managed to end their kiss was the most beautiful, erotic sound he had ever heard; she was temptation incarnate, and he could feel his proud sense of honor and propriety crumbling to dust. "You idiot! You already have my heart and my love. You've earned it so many times over."_

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She remembers wanting to go straight to her parents to beg them to let her and Killian get married, but his damn pride and honor would not be swayed—they would wait until he had proven himself worthy of her. Emma shakes her head at her impetuous younger self. Granted, she knows that at eighteen, she still has a lot of growing and learning to do, but she knows for a certainty that no amount of maturity will ever alter the love she has always had for Killian. He is her North Star, her compass; with him, she can weather any storm, but without him, she would be lost. Time will not change that. Now, all that remains is to convince the King, Queen, and rest of the country.

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The walk from the _Honor's_ berth along the quay and up to the palace is a relatively short one, and even though he knows his princess well enough to know that she'll make herself scarce, Killian can't help but chafe at the slow, dignified pace of his commander, Captain Victor Baleine. Also the son of a nobleman, Captain Baleine has been the single most difficult officer Killian has had the misfortune of serving under; however, he does run the most disciplined and well-trained crew in the entire Navy, so overlooking his occasional disagreeableness and sense of entitlement is relatively easy on a good day. However, on a day when they have arrived after a successful voyage and must attend a royal audience for their reports and those of several other naval commanders all while knowing that there is going to be a ball honoring his Lieutenant's promotion (and not his own) has apparently caused the older man to be on his most insufferably, disdainfully aristocratic behaviour. About fifteen years older than Lieutenant Dereves and a friend of his eldest brother (Augustus, heir to the Dukedom), it had nonetheless taken him a considerably longer amount of time to obtain his own promotions through the ranks. He does admire the younger man, but the bite of envy still stings.

As they are dismounting at the front steps of the palace, they see a streak of red-brown, green, and gold speed away from the stables and out across the park toward the hunting runs. Killian's heart seizes in his chest, thanking the gods that he at least caught sight of her and has this image of Emma, wild and impossibly untamable, to see him through the seemingly endless number of hours until the ball this evening. He's dreamed about her, longed for the day when he'd see her again since the instant he last saw her, just over a year ago before this latest voyage began; but he's yearned for this particular day for far, far longer than that. "Dereves! I've called your name thrice now—we musn't keep their Majesties waiting, Lieutenant."

"Apologies, Captain. I was lost in my thoughts; I suppose being on land again makes one lose one's bearings."

"Just so long as you remember your place and your manners throughout the admiralty session. It would not do for _my_ Lieutenant to be caught woolgathering when he should be paying attention to the proceedings and the newest mandates from the crown. Even if you are to be receiving your own commission soon, your every fault as well as your strengths reflect back on my capability as a commander, and I will not have any weakness on your part today. Are we understood?"

"Aye, Captain. It shall not happen again." Killian sighs internally, refusing to let his commander's foul mood spoil any part of this day. He nods politely to the guards—both of whom he knows from his youth—and asks after their family quietly; Baleine shakes his head at the Lieutenant's lack of social distinction, yet is also piqued because he is required to produce his commission in ordered to be identified and allowed to pass. As they enter, Killian notices the Doridian courtiers having a heated discussion in Agrabahn of all languages, the strangeness of that particular tongue spoken here being what drew his attention to it in the first place. Thanks to being a fosterling of the king's and thus having access to the same instructors, masters, and educational opportunities as the princess, he has long been multilingual—something that often came in handy when dealing with various foreign merchants, traders, and pirates as one does in the Navy. From Emma's descriptions of them in various letters sent to him while at sea and stolen, moonlit conversations in the gardens below her chambers, he handily recognizes the sniveling shorter man as the ambassador and the tall fop as the Vicomte who refuses to take no for an answer regarding a marriage alliance.

"She should be groveling at my feet, Aurum! That bitch needs to be brought to heel, and I'm just the man to do it. She's been allowed far too much leniency; we need to act decisively."

"I understand completely, my prince, and what's more, I agree with you. She does seem rather taken with Gemma Rubinia…perhaps we could find a way to use that to our advantage? If your sister and the princess were to be caught _in flagrante delicto_, then she would have no choice but to accept the match."

"No! Emma is mine to tame! I can share her with Gemma, but only after—" The foreign aristocrats finally move out of Killian's hearing, a fact for which he is both grateful and concerned as listening while appearing neither understand their plans nor be thoroughly concerned and disgusted taxed even his diplomatic skills. As soon as he is certain they are also beyond sight of the doors, he waves over one of the guards, the dwarf Dopey.

"Please get Stealthy. Those men are up to something and bear watching—was there anyone else in the hall just now who understood them? We might also need to increase the number of guards this evening. Will Grumpy be at the audience?"

The mute dwarf salutes him to indicate the receipt of the order to alert the spymaster and nods to inform Killian of his brother's presence in the throne room. Snow White's most trusted "older brother," Grumpy commands the palace guards and handles all security matters for the members of the royal family. Stealthy, apropos of his name, oversees the corps of agents and informers primarily inside the kingdom; until recently, he had also maintained their spy network abroad, but Emma had taken over as a part of her training to one day be queen. Both she and Killian are very direct people, preferring a frontal assault as opposed to using any sort of tact, yet their respective roles in maintaining peace and prosperity for their people required that they at least learn how to be diplomatic. Thankfully, as a soldier, he's not as frequently called upon to use those skills. He prefers to leave the politics to Emma, but a plot to discredit her and force her into marriage is something he can't ignore, in love with her or not. _And as long as you're jumping in anyway…_

When Lieutenant Dereves and Captain Baleine are finally admitted to the royal audience chamber, it is with a large assortment of their fellow officers and peers of the realm. He nods to Doc who enters and has a brief, quiet conference with Grumpy who appears even more dour than usual once his brother finishes speaking; the older dwarf hands his staff of office to the other, nodding and giving a slight bow to Killian on his way out. The dwarves know about the attachment between the princess and the lieutenant and have practically since the beginning; with eight uncles who are all part of the kingdom's military in some capacity or another, it would have been nearly impossible for the couple to have any time alone together, never mind slipping into or out of the palace grounds undetected. So, they'd taken the dwarves into their confidence, ensuring that they had proper chaperones who could also be persuaded to give them a little privacy from time to time. Killian briefly wonders if one of the dwarves let slip part of his and Emma's plan and if that information has prompted Vicomte Anguillam into taking more drastic measures; but he dismisses the thought almost immediately. The dwarves are entirely loyal to the Charming family, so if something has been said, it's much more likely to be a disgruntled servant or a member of the court who has seen he and Emma together in the past. Either answer is more than a little disturbing to him, but he knows that with the dwarves on alert, his princess will be safe.

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Grumpy returns to the admiralty session several hours later, during Victor's report on the successful trade negotiations made with the port city-state of Orlea. He speaks briefly with his bespectacled brother before resuming his post; Doc disappears from sight momentarily—a common occurrence when dealing with a mixed race crowd—only to reappear at Killian's elbow with a folded parchment and an encouraging, grateful handshake.

_Pirate,_

_ Extra guards in place. Bad hatchling found; Swan safe in nest. Good luck, kid._

He smiled to himself, remembering very well the conversations he had had with all of the dwarves at one point or another on his decision to join the Navy in particular. Grumpy had been all for him joining the guards and had taken to calling him a pirate for "deserting" him when Bashful and Sneezy had convinced Killian where his talents and work would be most quickly rewarded. Then of course, he'd pulled the same thing with Liam, calling him Mercenary. Also, the dwarf's ridiculous obsession with writing in code… Clearly, he couldn't think of any clever way to discuss additional security around Emma, but the "bad hatchling" must refer to the servant or other person who had passed the information along to the Doridians. He hadn't expected Grumpy or any of the others to know his plan (since, technically speaking, Emma didn't know he would be speaking with her parents _tonight_), but he supposes that he should just take their knowledge in stride as well as accepting their approval.

The rest of the morning passes less than swiftly toward noon time. Finally, Queen Snow calls a halt to the proceedings for the lunch meal, catching Killian's eye and regally nodding for him to approach. He waits for his fellow officers to pass and exit the grand chamber before making his way forward. As soon as he reaches the purple carpeting in front of the dais, he kneels and bows his head. Though it was the Queen who summoned him, it is the King who addresses him. "Our brothers tell us that you brought a potentially very disturbing matter to their attention. Dopey, while mute, has perfect recall and wanted us to express his thanks for corroborating his information. How was it that you overheard the Doridian ambassador's plan regarding our daughter?"

"As your Majesties know, I was well-educated here at court. Baron Aurum and the Vicomte were speaking in Agrabahn; not only do I understand that language, but while Captain Baleine conducted the trade agreement with Orlea, I was able to brush up on my speech with the various dignitaries. The Agrabahn envoy was pleased to converse with someone more than passing familiar with both his native tongue and the game of Hazard. Apart from that, you can confirm with both Dopey and my captain, Lord Victor Baleine, that they envoy's entourage and the Vicomte were discussing the matter quite publicly. No doubt they failed to account for anyone nearby being able to not only hear, but also to fully comprehend their schemes. Naturally, my first impulse was to alert the dwarves to the possibility of a security breach from the inside; it's a clever, devious trick they had planned, and I knew that your brothers would not take the success of such a scheme lightly."

Grumpy audibly huffs and curses at the very thought of how narrowly they avoided this threat to Emma and the kingdom. Queen Snow places a hand on her brother's shoulder as if to let him know that she for one does not blame him or think him derelict in his duty. Together with her husband, she descends the stairs of the dais until she is standing before him, bidding him rise. He cannot help but see his beloved in the lines of her mother's chin, in the color of her sparkling eyes. "You have served us well in this matter, as in all matters, Lord Killian Dereves. Trust us when we say that it will not be forgotten; you may ask of us any boon, and I doubt that there is anything we would deny you for ensuring the safety and health of the Princess Emma."

With heart hammering in his chest yet elated that this opportunity has presented itself, he kneels once more. "If I may speak boldly, I would claim it now. Your Majesties, you have known me since I was a child; you know my character, and you know from my service that there is nothing I would not do to protect you both and the princess. In many ways, your Graces have been more my parents than those who gave me life, and it now lies within your power to make me happy and to be my family in truth. I love your daughter, and I have for quite some time now; every day for the last seven years and more, she has been in my heart and in every waking thought. My service to your Majesties has been service for her, to prove that I am Princess Emma's equal as a man. She knows how I feel, and I believe she feels as I do; we have not spoken directly in a year, but if her heart is unchanged then she loves me still. I know that I bring no prestige or wealth, marriage to me would not cement an alliance or ensure peace, but I can offer my knowledge and devotion and support to her through all our years together. And as I love her, her happiness above all would be my daily endeavor."

His words are met with a silence that he does not know how to interpret, especially since his eyes are now locked on the floor in obeisance as his speech is finished. King David clears his throat and gestures for Killian to rise. "You think yourself worthy of my daughter?"

His head shot up, his answer ready on his tongue. "No, your Grace. I think that no man alive could ever hope to deserve Princess Emma, but I can promise that I will never stop striving to be worthy of her love. I have worked for and served your Majesties so that I can prove the sincerity of my loyalty, my ability to persevere when faced with challenges and hardships. No matter the arena, I will fight to ensure your daughter's life and happiness."

Queen Snow placed a hand on her husband's arm and stared into his eyes. He had seen them silently communicate like this for years, and the sight had always left him awed and envious. The purity of the love between the monarchs was entirely evident, warming the hearts of those around them in the simple pleasure of witnessing such devotion. Killian's own parents had had an arranged marriage, one that was motivated by wealth and title; they had developed a fond affection for each other over the years, but he craved for himself a union based on love and trust. If Emma had not returned his feelings, he would have accepted her decision and remained her loyal friend until the end of his days. He bowed his head, disconcerted and slightly afraid of the answer his king and queen might give him.

"I will speak to my daughter myself, not only to see what she has to say about all of this, but also to set my mind at ease regarding her safety. For my part, _Captain_ Dereves, if Emma does love you as you do her, then you hardly need ask what my answer will be. I'll send Grumpy back to you once I have finished speaking with our daughter, my dear." The queen smiles broadly at Killian, winking before sweeping out of the audience chamber with her brother in tow.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma knows that something must be wrong the instant she dismounts because she can see her uncle Stealthy waiting to speak with her in her horse's stall. It's a non-verbal code long since established between them, covertly announcing the relative magnitude of a potential situation brewing; and given that he like the average dwarf remains positively averse to all equines his presence alone communicates both the high strain for him in particular and extreme importance of his visit. She leads the mare into the stall, beginning the task of removing the tack and caring for her horse, keeping her voice pitched low to prevent eavesdropping. "Tell me."

"Apparently, Dopey and your Lieutenant overheard a very interesting conversation that the Doridian heir and ambassador were having in full view of the front hall. Normally, keeping their discussion discrete wouldn't have been much of a problem for them, seeing as it took place so very early, and they were speaking Agrabahn. Next time you decide on a ride before the sun graces us with her presence, please let me know beforehand—your mother and father tend to get distracted in the evenings and forget to inform me of such matters."

"I was surprised as anyone else to see them there, Uncle Stealthy; beginning my mornings with a dose of those obsequious weasels is nowhere near my preference… As far as secrecy goes, they couldn't have landed on a worse time or place to attempt to keep their argument private. It is pure chance that Killian speaks the language far better than even an Agrabahn rug merchant could manage, but I didn't know that Dopey understood it too. We got very lucky, Uncle."

"Indeed we did, and all part of your uncle's charm, princess. Most people think that being a mute means that Dopey is stupid; he plays on that prejudice quite well. The problem is that we know _what_ Aurum and Anguillam want to do, but not _how_ they plan to accomplish it. It also worries me that they knew you planned on being up early—who did you share your schedule with?"

Emma pauses in thought, mind distant while her hands work the currycomb brush over her horse's flanks. She told her parents, naturally, which places some of the servers at dinner under suspicion; but she knows that vipers are much more likely to strike somewhere closer to home. "I think it must be one of my maids. There have been two who have had several unexplained absences in the past month; seemingly innocuous events at the time, but I believe those sorts of judgment calls are in your hands now… Let me guess? Somehow my virtue and reputation are to be besmirched, the damsel fair with her purity in tatters must wed her defiler?"

He's tempted to laugh at the melodramatic picture Emma paints, complete with grand gestures and swooning that would do a veteran of the _Comedia della Arte_ proud, but he knows her temper to be a volatile thing where threats to the realm are concerned; and make no mistake—an attempt to blacken the heir's character is an attack on the whole kingdom. She lets out a creative Orlean curse, one Stealthy doubts is even physically possible to accomplish, when he merely nods to affirm her deduction. "When will they learn? When will they see that my parents for one and the kingdom for another will not let their princess be forced into an arranged marriage? My parents fought to free this land from several yokes of tyranny, and they managed it only because of the power of their Love! El Dorado, Orlea, Agrabah, Petros, Cleland… None of them stand a change of enslaving A'Nalon through any sort of treaty and most certainly not through me! So, what's your dastardly scheme for thwarting this perfidious plot? I know you've got something up your sleeve and that you want me to act as bait—don't deny it! You and Grumpy could have easily handled this in house without even bothering to tell me about it, so cough it up, Uncle mine!"

Stealthy smiles at the swift refocusing of her anger and her ability to make light of what could be a very treacherous situation, reminded of the days so long ago, when he rescued his brother from King George's prisons and inadvertently released a political hostage as well. Emma's audacity and taste for adventure has always rivaled even her mother's, a trait that the Queen desperately wished that she hadn't passed down to her only daughter. "We'd love to have solid evidence against the Doridians this time, and our best chance of getting that is to figure out who our little informer is and turning them back against the saboteurs. If your suspicions are correct, we need to exploit the weaknesses in both your maids; do you have an inkling as to which one it is?"

Emma pulls up the two maids and their recent behavior in her mind's eye; part of her diplomatic training included memory exercises that allowed her to internally catalogue and remember vast amounts of conversation and correspondence, but as the only heir for so many years, she has also found that applying them constantly helps in predicaments such as they find themselves in now. With very little difficulty, she is able to identify the more probable culprit. "Of the two of them, Phedre is more likely to forget where she placed her head than to be involved in some form of espionage or foreign intrigue, which leaves Athea d'Outeux. Sadly, I think mother may have been right when she objected to my bringing her back into my service. What do you and Grumpy have in mind?"

They discuss and discard, refine and rethink the various avenues by which the Doridians might come at her and the ways in which their offense might be countered. In the end though, there is always going to be some element of danger involved for Emma, since she is to be the bait for this particular trap. Pretending as if nothing were wrong, she adopts her most relaxed public pose—a slow, graceful gait that resembled the gliding of a swan across a still lake with a faint hint of a smile on her face. She absolutely loathes this pose—something that she puts on as if a mask for any sort of public display that she is forced to take part in—for her deportment masters had once likened it to becoming a doll, to transforming oneself into a mirror that people could look into and see themselves or whatever they wanted. Or, as she once put it to Killian, to thinking of herself as a fine painting—pleasant and beautiful to behold, yet lacking a voice or a say in how others interpreted her. Serene indifference was the term she applied to this persona, one deficient in any personality or individual thought; truth be told, this façade was rather what Vicomte Anguillam and all the other preening, self-important suitors over the years had expected from her. They wanted a pretty ornament for their courts, one that would remain silent unless spoken to and would parrot their opinions back to them when asked. Not one of them had ever dared to see if there was a real, flesh and blood woman beneath the mask, because they had never cared to. Only Killian saw the passion and the fire beneath the icy exterior.

She glides past the assembled naval officers in the hall, taking their courtly bows as her due and haughtily greeting a few familiar faces. She knows that he's there amongst them, his presence immediately felt in a certain thrumming in her veins that only occurs when he's near, as if his heartbeat and hers are connected somehow, entwined by destiny and their love. She does not see him, but her breath catches in her throat the instant his eyes fall on her, and her cheeks cannot help but heat and blush; she ascends the stairs, careful not to look back for a glimpse of him because she knows that sight will not be enough. If she were to see him, then she would need to touch him; and if she were to touch him, well then all their patience over the last three years would be squandered. Emma has never been more tempted to throw caution to the wind, but this small sacrifice is as much for him as the last three years have been. She knows in her heart that her parents would deny her nothing, that Killian's pedigree and his declaration of love for her would be enough to satisfy her father and secure his blessing. But she also knows that her lover's need to prove himself, to take pride and honor in his own merits rather than his family name, drove him to undertake this seven year quest. Her heart had melted and several more links in the chain that binds them together were forged that night in the garden when he shared with her the precise moment he realized that he loved her and what that instant's revelation had lead him to. Keeping that precious memory close, along with the nearly tangible brush of his eyes along her back, she manages to make it up the stairs and to her rooms without revealing their secret or tripping.

Five maids close ranks on her the second she steps through the doors, two shy of the number necessary to get her entirely pampered, preened, and polished before the evening's festivities begin at 4 o'clock. She had known beforehand that one of her maids, Millicent, would not be present due to the passing of one of her family members; additionally, Phedre is present, merely confirming Emma's suspicion regarding Athea. Not shocked, yet certainly saddened by her companion's betrayal, she suddenly feels far, far older than her eighteen years; as a royal, she has grown up familiar with the abstract concepts of espionage and intrigue, yet every time some scandal strikes or disaster is narrowly averted, her faith in human-kindness suffers another fracture. She knows that not everyone is pleased with her father and mother's rule, despite the nearly twenty years' uninterrupted peace that it has provided; indeed, there are plenty of people, nobles and commons alike, who would stand to receive a great deal of wealth and privilege if Regina of Sabra or Emma's own grandfather George d'Cygne were returned to their thrones here in A'Nalon. Tyrants always breed their own followers, those who believe that they understand the beasts who lord over them and can flatter and cajole them into doing the bidding of their subjects, or those who love injustice and revel in anarchy for the sake of destroying anything of value and beauty. But understanding the ideas and being faced with the very real threat posed by these internal and external forces are two very different things.

Emma's thoughts wander and meander through the web of darkness and violence that surrounds her while the delicate court ladies attend to their very sensitive and serious task of beautifying her for the ball; it's enough to make her laugh at herself a little, despite the grave cast of her musings. Surely, it must be added to the long list of things that distinguish her from the "average" noblewoman that while her companions help rid her of clothes and get her into a hot scented bath, she thinks instead of politics and policy. In her defense, being a young woman who stands to inherit a crown and the control of an entire realm full people who depend upon her to make wise, benevolent choices does not exactly lend itself to being shallow, selfish, and ignorant. But then she's more than just a bauble, a trinket to decorate a man's arm and his home, and she's always had to do more, to _be_ more, to prove to herself that she's worthy of her parents' legacy. It's one of the many ways in which she and Killian are so similar to each other—both eager to show, to demonstrate their own worth to themselves and to others; it's why they've always pushed each other, even as children, to excel and to be the best. And in their rivalry, they each managed to become better together—true partners and equals, much like her parents in their marriage, the one person's weakness being supported by the other's strength and vice versa.

She stretches and shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard, linen-covered wood of the bathing tub, desperately wishing that someone would figure out a way to make submergible cushions or anything that would make this painstaking process even the slightest bit easier on her backside. It bothers her to be completely idle—yes, she is getting clean, but it's not as if she can handle matters of state clad in nothing but her silk bathing chemise whilst also soaking wet in the middle of a large vat of hot water; so she's always tried to consider bathing as a time for thinking, for sorting through puzzles and problems in her mind. And occasionally, her thoughts in times past may have temporarily drifted toward Killian—a perfectly logical connection for her mind to make, as he spends so much time at sea and therefore must experience being dripping wet a great deal, especially during summer storms. And if, in her day dreams and fantasies, he just happens to look so infuriatingly dashing with rain water pouring off of his lean, well-muscled body, his eyes swimming with a heat that has her shivering from something decidedly other than a chill… Well, she may not yet be experienced in the physical aspects of love, but she is still a woman, with a woman's body and desires and a growing need to be with him. Which brings her right back to where she was this morning, hoping that today he finally relents on his quest to prove himself worthy of her hand and bloody well asks to marry her.

Her ladies-in-waiting know that Emma prefers to have as much privacy as is humanly possible when she is forced into hours of pre-ball preparations, but there is suddenly a strange, still expectancy to the silence that has descended on her chambers. There are no quiet whispers of gossip or the shushing of fabrics that usually accompanies the nearby presence of several young women. It's the kind of shift in atmosphere she has been trained to identify and swiftly end in conversation, but it applies itself just as readily in weapons' training, military tactics, and more. She lets her body slide down into the water, so that it appears as if she is floating on the surface; yet she ensures that her ears are not submerged as sound travels quite well over liquids. She also slips her hand to the garter sheath that was a present from her uncles several years ago, cautiously retrieving her palm-sized blade so that she is not entirely defenseless. She isn't yet sure where or who the danger will come from, but she'll be damned if she doesn't do her best to be prepared and pre-warned. There! The sound of two pairs of footsteps—one much heavier than the other—echoes over the barely rippling surface of the water.

She knows that whoever is here has been allowed to enter by Stealthy's purposeful negligence, so she wills herself to remain calm and appear as unsuspecting as possible, almost completely closing her eyes. The small dagger actually helps, giving her a sense of control—and in feeling not quite so vulnerable and naked. Unfortunately, patience has never been Emma's strong suit and the sense that this reckoning has been interminably long in the making has her throwing caution out the window. She sits up, getting on her knees in the tub while keeping her right hand with the knife submerged below the water's surface. Frozen in place about 3 meters or so away, Athea d'Outeux holds a steaming pitcher in one hand and a glass vial in another. Hovering just behind her is none other than Vicomte Ignis Anguillam himself, startled momentarily and then openly leering at Emma and her lack of proper clothing. "My dear Thea… I did miss you earlier, but now I see that you had someone other than myself to attend to. However, you did not need to bring a guest into my chambers as I already saw him this morning and will no doubt see him again later at the ball. Would you please escort the Vicomte out?"

"Oh, but then 'dear Thea' would be backing out on the promises she made to me, which means that I would be forced to break my promises to her." Anguillam's eyes never stopped roving over what he could see of her body and figure, making her skin crawl as if covered by thousands of live slime ants, but his words were all for the girl who stood between them. A few years older than Emma herself—maybe Killian's age, but certainly not much beyond—Athea had been unexpectedly dismissed from the Princess' service at the age of sixteen, at the Queen's express command. Though she had begged her mother, Snow had never revealed the reasons for the other girl's subsequent disgrace; it was only within the last year that the d'Outeux family had successfully lobbied the Queen for their daughter's return to the royal household. In that time, in point of fact, up to the last month, Athea had been the model of the perfect courtier. More recently, she had been inexplicably absent, not to mention downright rude to her mistress on several occasions. Emma hadn't known what to think of it, but in light of the way that the Vicomte was touching the other woman and the tone of his word, she now sees the entirety of Athea's past and present behavior much more clearly.

Given the way that Thea trembles, there must be more fear than love to this little affair that she has engaged in, but Emma has to wonder how much of the softer emotion is motivating her at this point. "Well, I suppose that the vial she's carrying is probably not my favorite perfumed oil for my hair combined with your presence right now can't precisely bode well for me. Let me take an educated guess as to what you two attempt to accomplish here. Knowing that my dear Thea was dismissed from service a little over five years ago and, if memory serves, you were also at court during the same time, I'd wager that the two of you were caught in an _affaire d'amour_. Once she was banished, you realized the terrible error you had made in seducing her openly, since your avenue to information about me and my schedule was closed. So, you waited—hoping that in the meantime I would be betrothed to you officially by treaty or that you would somehow manage to convince me to fall desperately in love with you. How am I doing?"

"You see too much and speak too much as always, Emma, but keep going; I'd rather like to see how much you've figured out on your own. It will make my victory even sweeter, knowing that all your knowledge couldn't stop me. Please continue." His hands begin to caress over Thea's body, increasing the tremors so much that he takes the vial from her hand and pockets it. The young woman whimpers, her dark eyes darting between staring at her feet and to the face of her Princess, silently pleading for help and mercy.

"When you realized that neither of those would happen, I imagine that more than your pride was wounded that your other brothers and sisters were then sent to woo me where you had failed. And even though none of them succeeded, it still galled you that a crown and a kingdom weren't going to be falling into your lap, especially not _my_ crown and _my_ kingdom. So, when you couldn't bribe or seduce your way into my ladies and my servants, you sought to rehabilitate Athea's reputation through her parents. Which comes to why she's here now—I imagine that you have made promises to her family about advancing their careers here at court and abroad with your Doridian merchants, considering that their wealth and access to the peerage comes through the cloth trade. But what have you promised Thea herself, I wonder… Favored mistress? Unlikely, since my subjects would never stand for it, and I could divorce you at the drop of a hat if it were ever discovered."

A tick in his eyes and a flinch from the young woman confirm her line of thinking. "Ah, I see. I am to be kept dumb and complacent while you rule in my name and Thea all but takes my place at court; she'll certainly have a vested interest in remaining my closest confidant, if only so that she can keep feeding me whatever that concoction you have in mind for me. Witch's tears or Siren's milk? Or is it some sort of poppy seed derivative that will keep me paralyzed? Alchemy is one of the many arts I've managed to learn quite a great deal about, so you'll indulge my curiosity, yes?"

"Dreamshade, actually. Sold to me by an Agrabahn assassin. Said it works wonders on making any stubborn bitch into an obedient, biddable wife."

She curses internally, virulently, and emphatically—she's heard of the deadly poison, but if Anguillam is convinced that it's relatively harmless, then there's no way for her to convince him otherwise. Yet she has to try. "You really must find more reliable sources, sir. What you have in your pocket is enough poison to kill the entire court! I've seen the effects of Dreamshade: a yellow-green ichor seeps out of the wound, while the poison blackens and hardens the veins. It's entirely incurable; I don't expect you to believe me, but once it kills me, I suspect that you might reassess your inner circle of friends and see who would benefit most by procuring you a poison instead of a paralytic."

His calculating eyes narrow at her, although they quickly return to a lazy examination of her body—really, the man cannot keep focused on more than one thing at a time, and Emma prays to the gods for forgiveness for her impulsive decision to confront him and for patience. She might also happen to slip in a plea that he'll let her keep talking, or better yet, attack her himself or start incriminating his entourage and country in this little conspiracy against A'Nalon so that her parents have a solid diplomatic footing from which to boot his arse and the entire embassy out of the palace.

"I don't trust you… But that doesn't mean that I can't take a little more enjoyment out of the process of compromising you. I've never had an audience before; would you like to watch, my dear? See the daughter of the woman who sent you packing in disgrace begging me and fighting to stop me from doing the things you so willingly let me do to you? Or would you like to be a little more active? Hold her down for me while I fuck her and then be the star witness? You could even run to the ice queen herself and tell her what you caught us doing—bring the whole palace with you to see their beloved, innocent princess being fucked like a whore!"

The rage and madness built up in his eyes as he elaborated on his scheme, his hands on Thea becoming rougher as he pawed at her. Emma tilted her head to the side, hoping that the young woman remembers their old wordless code. It had started when they were all much younger, developing a silent way to ask the others for help getting rid of a pesky courtier—such as faking a fainting fit so that the group could come to the rescue and scare the offendee away with their overwhelming feminine presence. Athea's eyes widen comically before she lets out a dramatic gasp, actually clapping a hand to her forehead before swooning into a heap. Unfortunately, she takes Anguillam down with her, so that the precisely thrown blade that Emma aimed at his hand lodges itself rather in his shoulder, just below his collarbone. With more care for the girl than for modesty, she quickly runs to Thea's side and bodily hauls her away from the swearing, bleeding Vicomte. Guards and dwarves swarms into the room, lending an even more chaotic note to the cacophony that is the Princess' bed chamber. "He made me! Oh, he made me, your Grace! Please know that I didn't have a choice!"

"It's alright, Thea. Just get me my damn robe, and we will sort through this mess together."

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"Ladies. Excellent work, my dears. Would you give us a few moments? I'd like a chance to speak with my daughter alone." The Queen's crisp tones brought a quick end to the excited chattering and twittering going on around the Princess, all of them immediately dropping into graceful curtsies before filing swiftly out the doors. Emma rises from the small divan, smoothing her hands down the skirt of her shimmering blue-green gown nervously; it's the first time she'd had so much to say regarding the cut and color of her gown, aside from derision and open loathing, and she's suddenly desperate for her mother to approve of her choice. Snow White's heart clenches somewhat painfully in her chest, suspecting as she does now just what has motivated this recent change in her beloved child. She glides closer, wishing that Emma would look up instead of staring at her dress as if she were five years old again and in trouble for setting all of the horses "free," liberating them from their stalls. She grasps her daughter's hands in hers, pulling them out to the side and urging her to twirl so that she can see the full effect of the gown. The taffeta silk is a lovely shade caught between blue and green, almost a turquoise, gathered into a dropped waist that falls gently off of Emma's hips. The bodice has some light embroidery swirls and whorls in silver thread, with a sprinkling of crystals and pearls—a simple, yet elegant design that now reminds the Queen of sea foam on the crest of a wave. The neckline is modest, yet also curved into a sweetheart shape, with a chiffon band attached to the very center of the bust with a pearl and crystal brooch. From there, the wisp of sheer fabric is twisted gently, wrapping around her upper arms for the illusion of sleeves. The transformation for the ball is nearly complete, but it's so much more than just the gown; she recognizes now all of the subtle shifts over the last few years and is faced with the bittersweet reality that her daughter has somehow gone from child to woman while she wasn't looking. Suddenly, Snow cannot hold back her threatening tears any longer, and it's more than the narrowly averted danger that has her crying.

"Oh, Emma! You—your father and I had quite the fright about what happened earlier, and now to find you looking so calm and unhurt, unruffled and heartbreakingly beautiful…" She cradles her child's face in her hands, remembering all of the myriad times her wonderful girl has managed to startle, scare, and then surprise her over the years. She brings her handkerchief to her eyes and tries to shake off the fear and sadness that had struck her so forcibly earlier when Stealthy and Grumpy had whispered the news of the attack on Emma from behind the arras during the admiralty session. She motions for her daughter to sit and pulls a settee closer for a chat. "I can see for myself that you're alright, so I'll do my best to stop worrying and move on to other, hopefully happier matters. A certain young gentleman spoke with me and your father, asking us a very specific question that requires more than an answer from the two of us. He also seems very certain of what _your_ answer will be."

Emma can't stop the blush that creeps into her cheeks, nor the hitch in her breathing when mention of Killian is made and her mother's eyes narrow pointedly. She ducks her head down in the most adorable manner so that Snow cannot help but laugh and kiss her forehead joyfully, wrapping an arm around her shoulders while also being careful of the dress. "Darling! Why didn't you tell us? Well, never mind your father, but I am positively hurt that you wouldn't share something as wonderful as being in love with me at least."

Her teasing tone softens the rebuke, but there is an ache of truth to the words that her daughter feels the need to soothe. Since she's been old enough to truly understand who she is and her place in her world, Emma has done her best to never lie to her parents; as a child, she would slip away and go do something reckless whenever she could manage it, not comprehending the dangers to herself, her parents, and the kingdom. Thus, it had been particularly hard to keep something secret, especially from Snow. "I wanted to, and mother, you have to know that I would have, but he made me promise. Killian… Well, you know Killian—he wanted to wait. First, he said it was because we were both too young, and then it was because I should be free to change my mind in case someone better came along. Finally, in the face of my superior logic and art of persuasion, he begged me not to tell you, because he wanted to prove himself to the kingdom, and to you and Papa most of all."

Emma shrugs and the rolls her eyes, conveying wordlessly the universal feminine exasperated acceptance of the bizarre, obscure mystery that is the working of the masculine mind. "Surely he knew that we would not deny either you or him! Granted, he's not his father's heir, but he's lived with our family for so many years! Being a waiting gentleman to your father certainly should have given him an excellent grasp of the politics and the ways of court and government."

"I know that, and you know that, but convincing a Dereves of anything takes quite a lot of talent. He believes that actions speak louder than words, and that serving the crown with martial deeds spoke much more eloquently than anything else. I couldn't talk him out of it, mother, so in the end, I compromised. It was a small enough sacrifice on my part—especially since I knew you and Papa were unlikely to arrange a marriage before I came of age; although, I did make him agree that I could tell you if it looked like a serious alliance might change things. He wanted to prove his mettle, testing it in the fires of battle; and as glad as I am for his promotion, I must admit that every time he goes to sea, I'll likely be a nervous wreck for weeks!"

"No doubt of that, my darling. So, your father is probably at this moment plying him with alcohol and scaring him out of his wits with threats about breaking your heart, etc. Shall I go and give him our consent?" At her daughter's eager nod, the Queen summons back the ladies-in-waiting so that they can finish dressing the Princess and regally swans away to go share the happy news with an anxious Lieutenant and fondly doting King. Absolutely glowing and elated, Emma ignores the frantic scurrying around her as they prepare for the final touches. Eyes closed, she imagines the scene downstairs in a few hours' time. Will her father make him propose in front of everyone? Given how easily flustered and embarrassed her intended can become when unexpected thrust into the spotlight, she sincerely prays that he won't.

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The only time Killian has ever been in the King's study before today it was as boy, and he had been brought over on horseback by his intimidating father to be examined as to whether he was fit to foster in the royal household. James, Duke Dereves, had put the fear of the gods into his six year old son, all but convincing the terrified boy that he would be swiftly rejected by King David and be the source of shame and embarrassment to his whole house. In reality, he had found himself faced with a kind, gentle faced man who was chasing a happily shrieking three year old Princess Emma while making exaggerated wolf growls. The laughing blonde pair had struck him, first with a sense of bewilderment, then with awe, and then with a pained envy for the joy and love that almost sparkled in the air around them as they played. His father encouraged competition in his sons, not good-natured roughhousing; Killian and his brothers trembled while in the Duke's presence, and they most certainly did not show him anything remotely resembling affection. In all ways except one, his real father is the man who now pours him a tumbler of brandy, carefully observing his nervousness with a glint of amusement in his pale blue eyes. Here is the person who saw him educated, who taught him how to do so many things, but who most importantly of all, showed him precisely what family and love mean to a real, true man.

"I had met you before, but you probably didn't remember at the time, when the Duke presented you for my 'inspection' as he called it. If I recall, Sleepy told me that you stood stock-still, absolutely petrified behind him down in the front hall. You really should have seen the expression on his face, watching me play with Emma! I'd never seen the old stick look so disgusted and shocked! I think I positively mortified him with my undignified, un-kingly displays of affection for my daughter."

"He has only gotten further entrenched in his ways, I'm afraid." Killian smiles as he remembers the last row he witnessed between the Duke and Augustus, taking a sip of brandy to cover his amusement. The King places his hand fondly on the younger man's shoulder, trying to adequately convey his sense of fatherly pride and approval with the gesture.

"I'm just glad you had the sense the gods gave you to try and do something with your life, my boy. Nobility has its place in this world, but there's more to it than bloodlines and names; it's about family, about feeling a kinship with the people who depend on you to lead them through times of trouble and to sustain them through years of plenty. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise: your service was, and is, honorable and _noble_." The double doors of the study swing open under the hands of the Queen, who closes them and slowly moves to join them by the fireplace. Killian's agony only increases as she looks up at her husband, engaging in another silent exchange that he cannot comprehend; it's maddening, torturous waiting for them to have their silent conversation right in front of him while his entire future happiness hangs in the balance. Finally, with a nod from the King, they both turn to face him with beaming smiles. He practically sags with relief as he releases the breath he's been holding and fills his lungs with air again. David claps him on the shoulder a bit more vigorously this time before pulling him into a bone-crunching embrace. Snow White's hug is softer, more maternal, but no less fierce than her husband's. From a small silk reticule, she produces a white velvet covered box.

"I had to stop by my rooms to retrieve it. This ring belonged to David's mother. She gave it to him, just as her husband's mother had given it to him. For generations, this ring has been passed down to the men strong enough, wise enough, and brave enough to love truly and love well. Now, it is your turn, Killian. You'll scandalize her ladies, but we really wouldn't have it any other way. Go!" With a grin splitting his face and after a swift kiss to the Queen's cheek, his trembling fingers wrap around the box. He practically runs out the door, footsteps echoing behind him down the marble hallways. David places his hands around his wife's waist, pulling her back against his chest and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Are the dwarves all standing outside her rooms with axes in hand?"

Snow smiles demurely and tilts her head up for a chaste kiss. "Actually, I'm pretty sure that Stealthy has a pair of throwing blades, but otherwise, you are correct, my dear."


	3. Chapter 3

An honor guard of eight dwarves awaits Killian just outside the door to Emma's suite of rooms, and while he appreciates every slap on the back, every handshake, and every empty threat of violence should he dare to trifle with her heart, he's truly anxious to see his beloved, his Princess. Each second has now become positively agonizing in its length—the knotted cord encircling his heart which then runs directly to hers pulls painfully tighter with every heartbeat, with every breath. Finally, all lectures delivered and methods of intimidation employed, seven of her uncles step back from the doors and let the anxious younger man through. Stealthy winks at him once before unceremoniously opening the doors, inadvertently sending the assorted ladies-in-waiting into an absolute maelstrom of indignation and feminine shrieks of displeasure. "Ladies! You are all hereby dismissed to your own rooms to prepare yourselves for the ball by order of the King, the Queen, and this young gentleman, who has requested and secured from aforementioned royal parentage a moment of the Princess' time, may enter with impunity! Good luck, pirate."

With a final flourish amid the swirling exit of so many skirts, Stealthy leaves the couple entirely alone for the first time ever, allowing them an unhindered reunion. Yet this freedom goes unappreciated, as Killian finds himself absolutely rooted to the spot, completely overwhelmed by the vision that is Emma in this moment, struck dumb and breathless by her. Some might think it strange that he would fall in love with some he's known nearly all his life, whose secrets are all laid bare between them and where no seeming mystery exists to entice and enthrall. Although she has been his best friend, his companion on many a childhood adventure, he yet believes that he could spend his days at her side and still not know her whole being by the time death closes their eyes. He takes in the details of her dress and the many ways she has chosen to personify the sea he serves her on, yet for him, it represents the uncharted depths that are concealed and revealed in her mind and soul. If he were any more religious or superstitious than he already is, he might be inclined to believe that some ocean goddess has deigned to take on flesh and grace him with her love and presence. He barely recognizes the woman standing in front of him, until she lifts her moss-green eyes in question, lower lip tucked between her teeth. There, in those tiny gestures of adorable insecurity despite her stunning beauty, is the woman who owns him body and soul.

The moment her uncle had barged in and order her maids to leave, Emma had all but stopped breathing. She had caught sight of him in the mirror, eyes locked on her through the flurry of offended, exiting women. The intensity of his focus has always unnerved her, made her feel completely stripped of defenses, and at the same time curiously exultant in that very exposure to him. She feels as if her mind is completely uncovered in his stare, yet she knows that he will respect and honor that gift of openness. When she finally gathers her courage and turns toward him, looking up at him as her fiancé for the very first time and not just her beloved, she's struck anew by her deep and growing need for this man to be by her side always. It's as if she's seeing him for the first time, discovering that first blush of desire and that abiding certainty that no other person can ever be the other half of her soul, save him. She yearns for him, longing for the reassuring warmth of his touch, the emboldening fire of his kiss, and most of all the soothing balm of his voice, but his silence and continued impersonation of a statue puts her patience to yet another test. She fidgets with the fall of the dress, any of her earlier bravado and poised self-assurance suddenly abandoning her when she needs them most. "I tried for months to find the right color, but I couldn't find anything that perfectly reminded me of your eyes. Because sometimes, when you're cross with me or angry, they'll turn murky and gray; and then others, like when we're out riding along the coast roads under the full moon, they shine like silver; and then again-"

He closes the distance between them in seconds, placing his hands on her waist and pressing their foreheads together in a strictly chaste, yet thoroughly intimate embrace. Both of them are panting, lightheaded and dizzy at the nearness of the other after so many long and lonely days apart, like they have been unable to breathe properly until this instant and _must_ fill their lungs. She smells of her favorite jasmine perfume and sunshine, fragrances he's missed while sailing on the decks of a ship and paying court to allies in a foreign land. They are scents both innocent and seductive, reminding him of their transition from friends to lovers, of open meetings and secret affections. He smells of cedar wood, crisp starch, and hints of tar and paint from readying the vessel for inspection. Each time he goes somewhere new, a part of his scent changes, but it's just something she's accepted about him—always able to go on adventures without her and bringing phantoms and memories back with him to share. He smells like home and like something wildly exotic, both familiar and foreign in ways that arouse and comfort her at the same time. Her right palm finds the spot on his chest directly above his heart, seeking for the reassuring pulse of life and warmth, faint beneath the many layers of his best uniform.

"You would be the loveliest woman in any room regardless of the color and cut of your dress, dearest Emma. I dare say, you could walk into the ball wearing nothing but rags, and poets would still write sonnets to your grace and beauty." He gently cups her face in his hands, thumbs feathering light touches to her cheekbones and long, calloused fingers carefully caressing her jaw and throat. He feels the heated blush in her cheeks before he sees the telltale flushing of her skin, loving that with a few words, he can watch her become even more radiant, just for him. He has watched her trade compliments and witty barbs with hundreds of diplomats and thousands of her subjects more times than he could count, and yet her blushes and shy smiles are his alone. Only when he looks her in the eye to earnestly express how she makes him feel—and words are such pitiful, insufficient things—will she glow as radiantly as if magically lit from within. When he'd tried to explain it to her once, she had merely shrugged and replied that love made him see what anyone else would be blind to. She sighs into his touch, the one palm still resting over his heart and other hand now resting lightly on top of his.

"Somehow, I doubt the King and Queen would ever give us leave to test the theory, but perhaps at a later date we can try. However, as I did go to a lot of trouble with this particular event, I hope you can appreciate all the pomp and ceremonial without feeling the need to verbally eviscerate anyone who will request a dance with me. Since you've now ruined your own celebration by making it about both your promotion and your engagement, you'll have to play nice with the nobles and your peers who will wish to congratulate us. Although, strictly speaking, you have yet to even kiss me today, let alone ask me to marry you." His smile becomes just the slightest bit predatory and his eyes light with mischief, reminding her of some of their more foolish and daring ventures in the past. His grin widens at her gasp when he pulls the well-known box from his pocket and then sinks to one knee.

"Then let me remedy the last fault before the former. My Emma love, my dearest friend, my Princess and my future Queen, you are the missing half of my soul. I've known for seven years and more that this moment would eventually come to be, where I would offer my heart and my body to your service. Despite having friends among the philosophers and poets of this court, I have no pretty speeches prepared, because when we need them most, words are inadequate to convey all that we feel. I love you, dear Emma. Will you please marry me?" When he looks back on his life, Killian knows that this moment will shine perhaps the brightest among his memories because he has never seen her look as radiant, as earth-shatteringly beautiful in her happiness. Love lights her whole body from within such as he has never witnessed before. She scrambles his wits and makes him forget how to breathe before raising him up and giving him life again with her kiss. He tastes their tears—his and hers comingling—in their kiss, her lips soft and yielding yet also commanding. Her answer requires no words, yet she whispers it repeatedly against his skin.

"Yes. You proud, stupid man. Yes!" She kisses him again, perhaps emboldened by how different, how free it feels now that their love for each other is open and acknowledged, soon to be announced to all the world. The force of her passion washes over him, shattering the dam holding back his own desires and overriding his better judgment. This—this is what he longs to discover—how the lovely creature in his arms can in one moment seem so untouchable, so pure and impervious and then become so swept away by her ardor in the next, transformed into a wanton temptress. And that her deeply hidden, passionate nature overcomes her to such a degree for him alone is at once humbling beyond belief and thoroughly arousing. He honestly has no recollection of how she managed to unravel the complicated knot that _was_ his cravat, nor how he ended up seated on the chaise near the window with Emma on his lap, her skirts flicked out of the way so that he can feel the heat of her nearly bare, stocking-clad thighs against his clothed ones. Her fingers are cool, yet they burn whenever they touch his skin as she—how did she manage to unbutton his waistcoat without him noticing?! "I can practically feel you thinking, Captain… A trait of yours that I find considerably irritating and vaguely insulting at the moment."

Her voice is pitched far lower, more seductive and sensual than he's ever heard it before, and he wonders briefly if her intent is to drive him mad with lust. He gasps when she runs her fingers through his hair and gently does away with the ribbon holding his queue in place, the sensation incredibly erotic and distracting. All doubt vanishes—she definitely wants to scatter his wits and test his resolve. "Mercy! My goddess, mercy please! You know that there is nothing in the world I want more than—hellfires, Emma! We can't!"

Killian buries his head into the curve of her neck, softly brushing his lips up the graceful column of her throat and then down to her shoulder in response to her deliciously sinful torture. Being a gentleman has not only been bred and drilled into him since the moment he could walk, but he learned most of those lessons from _**her**_ father, a fact that he's desperately trying to keep in mind. Yet the blonde siren ardently staking claim to his body, the woman he loves more than life, is currently determined that he emphatically NOT be a gentleman right now and doing her utmost to vehemently remind him just how closely in tune their true desires really are. "Can we not? Are we not, as of the moment that my parents gave their blessing and consent, a couple engaged to be married? Have we not withstood the test of years and storms and suitors? I may have lived a spoiled and sheltered life, Killian, but I am not ignorant. I hear the whispered conversations and giggled confidences of my maids and servants. I remember the night before you left… Have you forgotten already how it felt as I came apart for you in the garden under starlight? Oh, how I trembled for you and sung as you plucked my strings! How much more do you think I have longed to do the same for you, my love?"

He groans deep in his chest before seizing her lips in another kiss, desperate to cease her attempts to seduce him with words—those seemingly paltry things that somehow have become a formidable weapon against him in the hands of his heart's mistress. In his mind, he curses all poets for managing to so skillfully arm Emma and yet leave him at such a disadvantage. He feels her devious smile against his mouth, knowing that she believes herself entirely certain of an imminent victory. He frames her beloved face with his hands again and pulls back to study her eyes in an anxious attempt to stall the overwhelming need that thickens the air, noticing as he does that her wits are clearly as engaged in this battle as her body. It takes him several tries to clear his throat and his brain enough for coherent speech. "After the ball. Please give me that at least, Emma love. Let your parents make it official with their written decree and announcement; let us smile and dance and accept the congratulations of your subjects, and then I'll come to you tonight. Let the whole world know that I am yours and you are mine before we claim each other irrevocably. You know that our feelings will be no different in a few hours than they are at this moment. Please."

Her eyes narrow, turning her gaze to the same calculating focus that she uses when solving complex issues of policy or diplomacy. Strangely, watching her ponder all the facets of his request regarding their current…entanglement is just as enticing, just as seductive to his senses as her physical and verbal sallies have been up to this point; the impulsive yearning to kiss her again strikes him, her intelligence weaving an even more powerful and seductive spell than her body. She finally closes her eyes in resignation and sighs, not admitting defeat, but accepting that her conquest will merely be delayed for a brief span of time. "Very well, my heart. I know what your honor and pride mean to you, and for that I can find a modicum of patience. But I—Killian my life was in danger today, and even if I felt no fear for myself at the time, I need you to remind me how very grateful I am to be alive."

He gathers her closer in his arms, soothingly caressing the back of her neck as she recounts the events of earlier today and sending a constant stream of thanks to the gods that she survived entirely whole and unharmed.


End file.
